


One of the Wonders

by versaphile



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows, Character Study, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Revealed, Missing Scene, Protective Arthur, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:03:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>No mortal has ever survived their touch.</i> Arthur knows that if he asks how Merlin survived the Dorocha, Merlin will smile that cheeky grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Missing scene/Arthur study for 'The Darkest Hour'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of the Wonders

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [One of the Wonders](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906021) by [Aconit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aconit/pseuds/Aconit)



It's not until after, after the long journey back, after the memorial pyre has banked down to ashes, after his father has been settled back into his shattered fugue, after the loss of whole villages to the plague of the Dorocha has been quantified and the panic has ebbed (for now) from the castle and its lands, that Arthur allows himself to think about what Gaius told him.

_No mortal has ever survived their touch._

He knows, _knows_ that if he asks Merlin directly, Merlin will smile that cheeky grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and say something about how he's just lucky, or that it must have been more of a graze than a touch, and never mind that Arthur was two feet away from him and staring right at him as he flung himself bodily into the arms of the Dorocha. Never mind that Arthur closes his eyes and still sees the way Merlin's body went... the way he _died_ right in front of Arthur, _died_ , and Arthur knows death far too well to mistake that limp, ragdoll swing for anything else. The way Merlin's dead body flung back into the wall and crumpled to the floor and he was _gone_ , Arthur had known it.

He'd stopped breathing himself, everything suspended as the knights crashed into the room -- _seconds_ too late, he'd wanted to hate them for those bare, bare seconds -- and rushed to Merlin's body and turned it over (it it _it_ , Merlin's gone, he's gone, how can he be _gone_ ) and Lancelot had said _he's like ice_ and Gwaine had turned away and Arthur had breathed in and it had been so loud in his ears, breathed in knowing Merlin couldn't breathe in, wouldn't ever breathe or smile or mock or plead ever again. And it was silent then, no one daring to move or speak, the night finally empty of screams, as if the Dorocha had been temporarily appeased by the sacrifice, and Arthur suddenly felt relief that it would be over for him too, soon, to save his people, and he wouldn't have to live with the grief that was rising up inside him like a snowmelt flood.

And then Merlin had _breathed_.

It was a harsh sound, shallow and struggling, but it cracked through the room like a whip, shocking everyone, and Arthur was suddenly on his knees, his hands on Merlin's shoulders, on his body, feeling the faint, reedy pulse, seeing the wisps of frozen breath waft from his mouth and nose like smoke. His eyes were sheened with ice, and Arthur hesitated, thinking of frozen bodies in the snow, of brittle fingers and the softness of eyes, how the eyes always went first from a body, and then risked it anyway and covered them with his hands until water trickled out from under them like tears. When he pulled his hands away, the ice was gone, and slowly, slowly, Merlin _blinked_.

"By all that is holy," Gwaine said, and broke from his shock. "We have to get him out of here. Get him warm."

It was Gwaine and Lancelot who took charge, then, Lancelot with the torch and Gwaine shouting instructions as if he'd been born a noble after all, and they all lifted Merlin so carefully into Percival's arms, because even his hair was brittle and a frozen piece had snapped like a twig in Elyan's fingers and they'd all stared at the dark little tuft of hair in horror. 

The night was cold, but the open air seemed safer than the ruins, and warmer, as if the stone had trapped the chill and concentrated it. By the time they reached the fire pit, the sheen of ice had melted, and Merlin was damp all over, like he'd rolled in morning dew. His hair was plastered to his head and soft again, and his eyes were closed. He breathed as if he couldn't open his lungs all the way, and his chest barely moved.

They got the fire going, Elyan leading the charge for more wood, spooked and guilted over the snap of Merlin's hair in his fingers. They bundled Merlin in everything they could and lay him along the fire, lifting and turning him every so often so that he could warm evenly, as if he was a roasting boar. It was an hour before he started shivering, one of the longest hours of Arthur's life, waiting on the knife edge to see which way Merlin's life would fall. Shivering meant life, and at the sight of Merlin, bone-white and trembling violently before the fire, Arthur felt the shroud lift from his heart.

It was another hour before Merlin's eyes opened. Arthur had felt every second of it, unable to look away for fear that it was only his gaze that was holding Merlin here with them. As if sheer force of Arthur's will had enabled Merlin's survival and dragged him back from the Dorocha's frigid death. It felt that way because if it wasn't that, there was no explanation, no reason why dozens, maybe even hundreds of people had died in terror and Merlin had lived. His mind suddenly flashed on the memory of the plague in the water supply, of the miraculous recovery of Gwen's father, and Arthur's mind shied away from the thought, the idea that Merlin and magic could be said in the same breath.

Except Merlin had confessed to it, right then and there, hadn't he? Except that had been bravado, a foolish, stupid attempt to protect Gwen and save her from execution, because... because Merlin loved her? Because they were friends? And Arthur had told the court and his father that of _course_ there was no way Merlin could _ever_ be a sorcerer, he was too _stupid_ to be a _sorcerer_. But Merlin wasn't stupid, not even then. Brave and reckless and an idiot, but never stupid.

But then Merlin had opened his eyes, and Arthur had tucked the thought away, deep down where he didn't have to pay any attention to it. Merlin's eyes glinted under his lashes in the firelight, and at first they were blank and unfocused. Confusion seeped into them, accompanied by a little wrinkle of a frown on Merlin's forehead. And his first word, little more than air shaped by his lips, was Arthur's name.

"Don't try to talk," Arthur told him, shocked at the grief that he heard in his own voice. He swallowed, forcing himself to calm. "We thought you were dead."

"Feel..." Merlin tried.

"Shh, I know. We're warming you up the best we can. Don't try to move. Are you up for a little water?"

Merlin made a soft assent, and Arthur took his waterskin and eased a trickle past Merlin's bloodless lips. Merlin coughed, and Arthur could feel everyone's concerned eyes staring at his back. He wanted to tell them to go away.

"Easy," he said instead, and waited until Merlin was settled again to give him a little more to drink. "Enough?"

Merlin gave a little nod, and closed his eyes. Arthur thought he was asleep, but then Merlin called for him again, and wouldn't settle until Arthur rested a hand on his cheek. It was still cool, but the deathly cold was gone. Merlin turned against his hand, giving a little whimper of need, and Arthur petted him with his other hand to calm him.

"Rest now," Arthur said, gently, looking down into Merlin's barely-open eyes. "Sleep. You're safe now. We'll move on in the morning."

Merlin's eyes slid shut, and he slipped into a shallow sleep. If Arthur broke the contact between them, Merlin would become agitated again, so Arthur eventually freed one arm from the cocoon of blankets and cradled it while he slept, his back against the rough stone.

In the morning, the reality of the quest before them was like a gut punch. Merlin was still barely alive, and all Arthur could think about was taking him back to Camelot, back to the warm, familiar safety of Gaius' quarters. It took Leon to drag him back to sense, to remind him that people were depending on him, that the sacrifice still had to be made. But now that Merlin was alive, Arthur no longer welcomed the thought. His heart rebelled at the unfairness of it all, but he had no choice. He entrusted Lancelot to get Merlin to safety and health, and let duty move him on.

But duty hadn't been enough. It was as if Merlin had taken Arthur's heart away with him, strapped to his horse and pleading for Arthur to let him stay with every shallow breath. Arthur marched on, but he was hollow inside, and everything that mattered was going away from him. He'd thought that maybe it was better that way, that it would be a relief to give up his life after all, but all he wanted was to have Merlin back with him again, beside him as he always was, constant and impossible and _his_. Arthur couldn't smile without him anymore.

And then Merlin came back, hale and hearty, and Arthur _grinned_. Grinned like he couldn't stop, and he didn't care how it happened, didn't care what miracle or magic Lancelot had found to heal him with. He had Merlin again, and that was all that mattered. It was everything.

It was only once Merlin was back in his proper place that Arthur's world widened again. He saw Elyan trying to apologize and Merlin not letting him, because he was fine now and there was nothing to forgive. He saw Gwaine pale with relief, and then smiling wide and hugging Merlin with all his might. He saw Percival's quiet gladness and the way he gave a sturdy slap to Merlin's back, as if to prove to himself that Merlin was all right. And he saw Lancelot looking at Merlin with awe and determination, and Arthur wondered again what had happened to earn them this transformation.

He hadn't asked, because if the truth was bad, he didn't want to know it. He wanted to die with only love in his heart, and know that Merlin would be safe because of his sacrifice, that the others would take care of him. He knew Lancelot would, knew Gwaine would. Knew Gaius and Gwen would do their best for him. Arthur wouldn't be leaving him alone.

Except it hadn't quite worked out that way, in the end. And now the thoughts he'd tucked away, the inconvenient fact of Merlin's survival, Gaius' solemn statement: all of it is coming together in his head, now that the distractions have ebbed away, now that he's alone with his thoughts and the fire burns hot and high in his hearth. 

_I place myself at your mercy,_ Merlin had said, ready to die.

 _Merlin is a wonder,_ Arthur had said, and dragged him from the room.

Arthur knows, he _knows_ , that if he allows himself to consider it, all the evidence will lay itself before him. All the disappearances, the unreasonable knowledge, the inconsistencies of his life will resolve into the truth. But he isn't king yet, and his father's laws still stand, even if his father barely rises from his chair anymore, barely sees the world around him. As if his father ever saw the world as it was, through the veil of grief and anger that his mother left behind. Arthur will not perpetuate his father's injustices. That much he knows, when he thinks of what kind of king he will be.

His father is not long for this world. Every month he weakens further. Can Arthur be patient, can he wait for the moment to be just right, can he wait until it isn't a betrayal to allow himself to accept the truth? To accept that he loves, and is loved, and it is a love his father will never accept? Can Arthur hold all of this in his heart and ensure that it will not break apart from the pressure?

He looks over at his bed, where Merlin fell asleep, slumped over while waiting for Arthur to finish up at his desk for the night. A servant in the Prince Regent's bed, entirely inappropriate. There is nothing of Merlin that is not a scandal, but he has been Arthur's for so long now, if Arthur will only reach out and take him, and all that is offered. It is an unending irony to Arthur that Merlin was a gift from his father, the one gift that Arthur treasures over all else, and the one that his father will surely one day curse from his grave.

Let him curse from his chair, let him curse from his madness.

Arthur rises from his desk and knows that there will never be a perfect moment. There will never be a time when the truth will not bring complications. And he knows with all his heart that he cannot be patient any longer. Camelot is a dangerous place for a sorcerer, especially one who loves his prince and will do anything to protect him. And his prince will not lose his sorcerer before he has truly found him, and kept him.

Arthur walks over to the bed, and rests his hand against Merlin's cheek. It is warm with life, soft with sleep. Merlin stirs at his touch, seeking more. And Arthur bends down to him, and wakes him with a kiss.


End file.
